


You Won't Forget My Name

by redluna



Category: Inception (2010), Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Canon-Typical Violence, Crossover, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-17
Updated: 2013-09-17
Packaged: 2017-12-26 20:42:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,455
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/970091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/redluna/pseuds/redluna
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Who was that shape in the shadows? Whose is the face in the mask?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Eames had never been what you would call a normal career man. If he were honest, which he rarely was, then he would say that it had all begun with his origins. His mother had been a maid at a grand estate, who had been naïve enough to believe that the lord of the place was truly in love with her. She had been turned out the instant the wife found out about the affair, of course. When she discovered she was pregnant, she had tried to return to the lord, begging for his help, but had merely turned her away.

So his mother had wound up working about a dozen jobs just so that they could get by. Eames had always wondered why she had never resented him for putting her in such a position. She never lost her gentle demeanor, smothering him with love every chance she got.

The ever changing gray of his eyes had come from her, along with his unusually full lips, but his brown hair and stocky build had not. He had resented the parts in him that had come from his father, even though his mother assured him that she didn't love him any less for them. He hadn't wanted anything that could connect him back to a man he hated and still did.

It all began through Eames' determination to be helpful. He had been tried of seeing his mother come back late at night, all of her jobs finally finished, collapsing into the bed that they shared. He had just wanted to help take the load off her shoulders, give her a chance to actually _relax_.

The only problem was that there weren't many good paying jobs for minors. Except when it came to the less legal ones.

Eames had learned how to be quick with his hands, snatching things out of the pockets of people he passed by on the streets without them even noticing. Once he had gotten confident enough in his skills, he even managed to swipe food from the stalls that the vendors lined up along the _Avenue des Champs-Élysées_.

When he looked back on it now, he was pretty sure that his mother knew where the sudden influx of money and food had come from. She had never questioned him, however. She had just beamed over whatever he brought back to her, showing her gratitude by sweeping him up into her arms and kissing her firmly on the cheek.

It hadn't been the best of living situations by far, but they had gotten by. All they had ever needed was each other. But then even that had been threatened by a bout of pneumonia that struck his mother without warning. He hadn't been able to afford a proper doctor or the medicine that had been needed no matter how much money he had scrounged up. It had been horrible to just sit there, unable to do anything but wait, no matter how many times his mother had told him she didn't blame him for any of it, that she still loved him no matter what.

She had passed away on a bitterly cold day in the heart of January. And a week after that, once the small funeral was over, the landlord had thrown out Eames onto the streets.

He had been just twelve years old without anywhere to go. So he had craved out a life for himself on the streets, determined to tough it out until he found something better.

That had been how Stephen Miles had found him.

He had been curled up on himself on a street, trying to stay warm, when a large coat had suddenly been draped across him. His head had darted up, only to find a man with a kind face smiling down at him.

"I think I might have a job for you," he had said.

Eames had tried to wiggle out of it at first, not wanting to accept any charity work, but Miles had insisted. He had had to half drag the boy back to where he lived and worked—the Opera Populaire.

And Eames would always be grateful beyond words to him for that. If hadn't been for Miles than he would never have had the chance to see the opera house for all its glory. Mal, Miles' precocious daughter, had shown him every inch of the beautiful building. The two of them had often dragged along Miles' apprentice, Dom Cobb, with them on their explorations of everything the place had to offer.

Under Miles' watchful eye, he had received an education not just in the standard subjects, but architecture and music. He had been given the same music lessons as Mal, his tenor voice making a good match for her own soprano. And when Eames had discovered his talent for forgeries through his art lessons, Miles had encouraged him there as well.

The opera house had adored the man just like the three children he considered his did. There was never any question amongst the staff that Mal would be the one to inherit his potion as owner and manager once he decided to retire. Unfortunately, that time had come quicker than any of them had expected, just a few short weeks after Mal and Dom had gotten married.

The transition into the new ownership had been a bumpy one and Eames had sworn that he would do everything he could to help the newlyweds. They were his family, after all, in the only way that truly counted.

Still, when he made that oath Eames hadn't expected for it to be called upon in quite such a manner.

The three of them were currently in the manger's office, a place where they could be insured privacy since none of the opera staff would dare intrude on a place that held such memories. Mal was sitting in the large, plush chair behind the desk, fixing Eames with one of her most penetrating stares. Dom was standing at her side, his nerves showing through in the way his eyes lingered on everything but Eames.

Eames, meanwhile, was in one of the chairs in front of the desk, trying to make sense of what his two old friends had just asked him to do. "I'm sorry," he said, "but did you really just—"

"Ask you to pretend to be a ghost?" Mal cut in. "Yes, we did."

"Um, right." Eames tried to think of something to say, but couldn't come up with anything besides the obvious. "You do know how completely _nuts_ that sounds, right?"

Dom sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Trust me, we do," he said. He shot a look at his wife. "Or at least I do."

Mal just rolled her eyes, seemingly exasperated with their inability to see things through her perspective. It was an expression that Eames had seen countless times before. "I see no reason not to be blunt here," she said. She took a deep breath, allowing herself to appear vulnerable for one rare moment. "The Opera Populaire is losing patrons."

"What?" Eames exclaimed. "But how can that be?" He couldn't imagine how anyone could not want to come to the opera house. The building was one of the most magnificent feats of architecture in the city. And the music that it contained was sublime.

"The upper class doesn't see this place like we do," Mal said. "In our eyes it's a glorious testament to music, to them it is only another place to mingle and gossip. And they are starting to find other places to do that."

Eames' hands clenched around the arms of his chair. He would never look fondly upon aristocratic class, who reminded him far too much of his father, and this was one of the reasons why. He had a feeling that none of them would notice true beauty if he were to slap them across the face with it. He took a deep breath to calm himself before he spoke. "And you think having a ghost would solve this?"

"Yes!" Mal exclaimed. "It would make the opera house stand out, give it a certain allure."

"You wouldn't have to do much," Dom said. "You're such a good actor already. Just pull a few of your usual tricks, let yourself be seen every so often then disappear through those hidden passageways you and Mal are so fond of. Just place the ideas in their heads." He snorted. "The ballet girls will surely promote your story."

"And you can still be our Eames," Mal said, "without anyone being the wiser."

Eames rubbed at his chin, brow furrowed. "You're really serious about this then," he said.

"We wouldn't have come to you otherwise," Mal said. "And, of course, it's not as if you won't receive anything in return. You will receive a salary once business starts to pick up—"

"That's hardly necessary," Eames said.

Mal arched a brow at him. "Don't be silly," she said. "You will be performing a service to the opera house, something for which you shall be paid. You can use it on the designs we thought up for the lagoon beneath the stage." A small smile graced her lips. "And I was thinking of having you help me with the management, if only a little bit. It will be useful to have someone who can provide me with a second opinion on what operas should be selected and who should be given what roles."

"And I can't provide you with that?" Dom asked.

Mal looked up at him with an indulgent smile. "Oh, darling, I know you can appreciate it, but it is not your realm. You are much better with what goes on behind the scenes. It is what makes us such a good team."

Eames was unable to keep a small, fond smile from his lips as he watched the two of them interact. He had never had any doubt that his friends would wind up together in the end, even if Mal had kept Dom guessing throughout their whole courtship. They shared a connection that no one else could truly understand, not even him.

He slumped back in his chair with exaggerated sigh, drawing their attention back to him. "When faced with such wonderful terms," he said, "I suppose I shall have to accept."

Mal flashed him an enormous smile. "I knew you would," she said.

Dom only chuckled, moving forward to shake his hand firmly. "Thank you for this, old friend," he said. "You won't regret it."

"Oh, I don't think I shall," Eames grinned. "I only hope it works."

\---

And, as fate would have it, it _did_ work.

Eames had made sure to look the part, heading down to the costume department to nick a few of the things that wouldn't be missed. He had loved the dark cape the instant he saw it. Mal had said later that it was because of his taste for dramatics, which was probably true. All he knew was that he adored the effect it had, swishing around him as he walked.

The mask had been chosen more on a whim, really. It had just been lying there on one of the tables he passed by, quite the unassuming thing. Even he would have expected himself to go with something elaborate, perhaps done up in some shocking color. This mask had been just a simple thing, fashioned out of white porcelain and intended to cover the upper half of a person's face.

But Eames had found himself unable to get it out of his mind. So he had gone back and tried it on, only to find that it fit his face perfectly. And that had been that.

He had followed Dom's advice after that. He had stalked around the scaffolding that hung above the stage and in the back corridors nears the dressing rooms. He would always wait until someone had caught sight of him then whip the cape around him before disappearing through a concealed trapdoor or unknown passageway.

It hadn't taken long for tongues to start to wag. It started with the ballet girls, of course, who were always eager for any form of gossip. Their vivid imagination had magnified everything and he made sure to fan the flames. He had pulled some of the same tricks he had as a child, making things disappear or replacing necessary objects with something else. Soon, if anything had gone wrong around the opera house, it was blamed on the opera ghost.

After that everyone had had a story about the ghost. Eames' favorite ones, however, had come to be about his appearance. He had related the details to Dom and Mal over supper, reducing them both into heaps of laughter. He had been said to wander around always in a dress suit, like a man of fashion. His eyes supposedly burned with a fire straight from hell itself. Everyone had been warned to stay on their guard unless they wanted to be caught with his "magical lasso."

Eames had insisted that the incident with the ropes had only happened one time. The stage hand had had it coming anyway from how he was hassling that poor chorus girl. Still, he had taken care to don a dress suit and lasso whenever he went out to play the ghost from then on.

It hadn't taken long for word to spread throughout the rest of Paris. People had begun to flock in like mad then, all wanting to catch a glimpse of this mysterious apparition.

And Eames had been made sure they weren't disappointed. He had targeted the people in box five, which had always been his favorite one on the tier. It had begun with minor nuisances, such as strange sounds and missing belongings that had then escalated into random prods and hissing whispers. In the end, Eames wound up with the box to himself and from then on box five was known as the opera ghost's personal box.

Life continued on in that manner for a few years. Eames settled into a comfortable routine as the resident ghost and there was rarely an empty seat in the opera house.

And then Arthur had come.

\---

Arthur entered the opera house with little more than the clothes on his back, looking as though he was in need of more than a few good meals. The soft planes of his face made him appear much younger than he was, but his eyes held all the maturity of a person twice his age.

None of this, however, was particularly surprising once one learned about his background.

He was the son of Charles Moss, a talented, yet eccentric, violinist. His mother had died in childbirth, leaving the boy to be raised solely by his father. The two had shared an extremely close bond, being the only ones truly there for each other throughout their lives. It was no secret that the death of his father had left Arthur crushed; one only had to look at the boy's face to see it.

The small family had never done well in terms of finances so, after the lose of his father, Arthur had found himself with nowhere to go. He had come to the opera house to appeal for a place to stay since his father had been an old friend of Miles and he remembered the man's daughter and apprentice from his youth. He swore that he would do any form of work, anything at all, so long as he could stay.

Eames had known that the boy wouldn't be turned away when Mal responded to his plea with soft eyes and Dom had slung an arm around his shoulders. There was no way that either of the opera house's owners would turn such a boy out on the street, old connections or no.

Still, Eames was a bit surprised when Mal insisted on having Arthur audition for them. He watched from his usual place up in box five as the boy stood there on the stage, fidgeting under the glare of the lights.

"Is this really necessary?" Arthur asked. "I can do something backstage. Or I could manage the books? I'm really good with numbers."

"I'm sure you are," Mal said, "but I remember what your voice was like as a child. I bet under a man such as your father it has grown even better from what it was like back then."

Arthur ducked his head, although Eames couldn't be sure if it was from embarrassment or sadness brought on by the reminder of his father. Either way, the boy raised his head a minute later, face screwed up in determination, and began to sing.

Eames found himself snapping to attention in his seat, unaware of how his fingers were digging into the arms of the chair. That voice! He had never heard anything like it! The pitch was spot on, there was no weakness in either register, and the tone never once faltered.

Yet there was something curial missing—emotion. There was literally _nothing_ there. It was a voice without any soul.

Eames felt like his heart was being constricted by the most exquisite pain. The boy needed to learn how to bring life into his voice, but that wasn't something one picked up on their own. But where would he find a proper one?

He was drawn out of his thoughts with a jolt as the song came to an end. Mal heaved a heavy sigh then, looking up at Arthur with a soft, sad smile.

"The chorus it is then."

\---

Eames paced across the floor of the manger's office that evening, unable to keep still, while Mal watched him from behind the desk.

"It's so cruel," he said. "The boy has such talent…and it's all going to waste!"

"Don't you think I know that?" Mal said. "But what can we do? It's like his inspiration died with his father."  
"He needs a teacher," Eames said.

"That is obvious," Mal said, "but none of the ones here are a good match for him. All of them keep producing the same results."

Eames stopped in the center of the carpet, staring off into space. "He needs a better teacher then," he murmured. "Someone who can give his voice the proper assistance…"

Mal eyed him warily "Eames," she said, "please tell me your not thinking—"

"Why not?" Eames turned towards her with a grin. "You know I would do better with teaching him than any of the others you've thrown at him so far."

Mal narrowed her eyes at him, her suspicion plain. "But who will you teach him as?" she asked. "Yourself or the ghost?"

Eames never lost his smile. "We'll just have to see which he's more comfortable with, won't we?"

\---

It seemed like an incredible stroke of luck that Arthur had been given the dressing room that contained the huge, elegant mirror that hid one of Eames' favorite passageways. The person on the other side would see a reflective surface where he would see a mirror. And he had never been more grateful for that than now.

Arthur was sitting before his dressing table, his arms wrapped around himself as he cried. It was the first time Eames had seen him display any powerful emotion. The boy always managed to keep himself in check in front of everyone else, never losing his composure. What could have happened to make that change?

Arthur sucked in a short, raspy breath. "Oh, Father," he whispered, "why did you lie? You told me that I could sing, that I was brilliant at it. But that wasn't true was it? You were just too blinded by paternal bias to see it." The chocked laugh he let out, without any traces of humor in it, broke Eames' heart just a bit. "It's like the Angel of Music. Just a silly fairy tale."

Eames' mind came alive at that. He had planned to present himself to Arthur as the ghost or himself after he could be certain which would be better received. But now it seemed like neither would be particularly well received. In fact, it seemed like the only person Arthur wanted to guide him was an "Angel of Music."

And Eames could be that for him.

He began to sing a hymn, softly at first, letting his voice become steadily louder until it seemed to fill the room beyond the mirror.

Arthur stopped clutching at himself, his eyes darting around the room. "Who's there?" he demanded.

Eames brought his voice down a few octaves, letting it come out in a slow, breathy rumble. "I am your Angel of Music," he said.

Arthur's eyes went wide at that, his mouth falling open. "My Angel of Music?" he breathed.

"Yes," Eames said. "And I have come to teach you."


	2. Chapter 2

Since he came to the opera house three years ago, Arthur had adopted a private, inner schedule. So, when the first rays of sunlight began to slip through the windows of the ballet dormitories, Arthur was already getting out of his bed. It took him hardly any time at all to switch from his night clothes into the costume that had been delivered along with the others just last night. He glanced around the dormitory to make sure that the others were all still asleep before he left.

Constant practice ensured that he made not the slightest creak on his way down to the chapel. He was unable to contain himself once he grew close, however, dashing down the remaining steps and into the room. He knelt before the candles, a faint smile gracing his lips as he saw that the one he had lit for his father was still burning.

His body adjusted instinctually into the proper posture, his shoulders sliding back to straighten his spine while keeping the rest of his body relaxed. Once this was done, he let his voice go through the necessary warm ups, all of which he knew by heart at this point.

He didn't stop until the sound of a violin floated into the room. He paused then, allowing himself a small smile, before starting the first of the songs he would have to sing that day. He drew strength from the music that came from the violin, letting it guide him through each rise and fall.

It all came to an abrupt end, however, with the cry of another voice.

"Arthur!"

Arthur sucked in a sharp breath that was caused partly by the unexpected arrival, but more because of the empty feeling that came with the lose of the music. He looked over his shoulder to see Ariadne standing there, looking winded. He could already guess why she was there. "Time for rehearsal?"

"Yes," Ariadne said. "Now come on before we're late!"

Arthur rose to his feet, his eyes lingering for a moment on the angel painted on the wall between the candle. He shook his head, trying to clear it as he headed over to his friend. "Did you sleep in before coming to get me?" he asked. He got his answer from the weak smile she offered him. "Ariadne!"

"How do you always know?" she groaned. "Oh, well, that just means you can't lecture me now without wasting time." She darted up the steps that lead back up to main part of the opera house and Arthur could hear her laughter echoing off the walls as he raced after her.

Fortunately fate seemed to be on their side that day for the two them arrived back stage just in time to start the warm ups with the other dancers. Mal sent them a glance filled with a fond sort of exasperation that made Ariadne giggle and Arthur bite his lip to hide a smile.

All traces of good humor vanished in a heartbeat, however, once the shrill sound from the stage reached their ears.

Ariadne abandoned her stretches in favor of pressing her hands over her ears. "Oh, good God!" she exclaimed. "It's like she just keeps getting worse!" She scrunched up her nose. "I miss Mal already."

"We all do," Arthur said, "but it's out of our hands." And, to be honest, everyone in the opera house knew that they could have fared far worse.

It had all begun when Peter Browning had come to the opera house. He was the man in charge of the legal elements of one of the most well known companies in Paris, Fischer Morrow. This already placed him as quite the powerful man, but it seemed that his influence had grown since the health of the company's owner, Maurice Fischer, began to decline. He had claimed to have come on behalf of Maurice himself, trying to convince Dom and Mal to pass ownership of the Opera Populaire over to Fischer Morrow.

It was rumored that a substantial sum had been offered to convince them to agree, but the Cobbs had refused to give up their positions. Mal had sworn that she would never let the opera house be in the possession of something as impersonal as a company. And, frankly, everyone else at the opera house had agreed with her.

Browning hadn't let the matter rest there. No one had any idea how he managed to do it, but somehow he convinced the leading patrons that it wasn't right for Mal to be both the manager _and_ lead soprano of the opera house. So she had been forced to step down to make room for the new soprano that Browning had brought in, a young Italian woman named Carlotta.

It was a firmly held belief throughout the opera house that Carlotta would never have been allowed near the stage if it weren't for Browning. She had a capable enough voice, but her lack of restraint turned everything she sang into some sort of screech. And she had one of the most oversized egos that Arthur had ever encountered. She was always strutting across the stage, barking out commands to everyone around her.

The only person who didn't seem to hate her was Nash, the lead tenor. He, for some unfathomable reason, seemed to have fallen head over heels for the diva.

"That doesn't make it any easier to put up with," Ariadne shot back. "It's bad enough that Browning is already prancing about like he owns the place."

Arthur was about to reply when a familiar voice rang out across the stage.

"Rehearsals, as you can see, are already under way for our production of Chalumeau's _Hannibal_."

Everyone stopped what they were doing to watch Dom lead Browning across the stage. The whispers seemed to increase with each step they took.

"Speak of the devil," Ariadne said. "What's he doing here?"

Carlotta was prone to throwing enormous temper tantrums if anyone dared to interrupt her singing, but Browning, apparently, was the exception to this. If the way she ran over to throw her arms around him was any indication that was.

"Goes to show what side she's on," Ariadne said.

"Was there ever any question about that?" Arthur remarked, wryly.

Browning patted Carlotta on the back with a small chuckle. He didn't realize that Mal had approached until after the Italian woman released him. He inclined his head politely to her, a gesture that was returned with a certain degree of coolness.

When Mal spoke it was with a sharply aloof tone. "We were not expecting you today, Mr. Browning."

"Ah, well, I meant for it to be a surprise," Browning said.

Mal arched a single brow ever so slightly. "And you have succeeded there," she said. "I assume this is about the new patron you told us about?"

If Browning was annoyed with her for revealing his surprise than he didn't show any signs of it. "Yes, actually," he said.

Arthur exchanged a glance with Ariadne, the two of them realizing what was going on at the same time. Browning might not have been able to secure the opera house for Fischer Morrow yet, but he was going to plant another spy in their midst in the form of this new patron.

Arthur was already starting to feel infuriated with this person just for existing, which was why he was thrown through such a loop when Browning made his announcement.

"I am deeply honored to introduce to you my godson, Robert Fischer."

Arthur knew the man who walked out afterwards with a huge smile on his face, despite the lackluster applause he received.

The words slipped out before he could think better of it. "It's Robert." He cursed inwardly as Ariadne turned towards him, looking puzzled. This was a story that he had never thought he would have to share, even with someone as close to him as she was. "Before my father died when we still lived near sea…I guess you could say we were childhood sweethearts."

"Well then…" Ariadne glanced over at Robert, her head tilted to the side. "I suppose he is handsome."

Arthur let out a laugh tinged with relief. He was glad that Ariadne hadn't made some comment about how awkward the situation was. He already understood that perfectly well on his own.

Carlotta turned towards Robert as the man approached his godfather, an enormous smile fixed on her face. She was already raising her hand, seeming certain that he would greet her first. The smile slipped right off her face, however, when he turned towards Mal instead.

"Mallorie Cobb!" he exclaimed. "It is such a pleasure to meet you!" He ducked his head with a somewhat embarrassed smile. "I've been a huge fan of yours, ever since I was a boy. You have such incredible talent."

Mal showed her surprise in the slight upward lift of her eyebrows. She, like everyone else, had expected Robert to greet the new star first, the one his family had promoted. She held out her hand to him all the same, however, her eyes warming a little as he bent to kiss it. "Please, you can call me Mal," she said. "It always makes me so happy to meet someone who admires work." She let out a light burst of laughter. "Perhaps I just enjoy the praise."

"Well you most certainly deserve it," Robert grinned.

Browning cleared his throat, drawing his godson's attention back to him. "Robert," he said, "may I introduce you to Carlotta Giudicelli, the new leading soprano?" The emphasis he put on the word "new" caused all of the warmth to flee from Mal's face as her eyes narrowed.

Carlotta, who had been pouting over being ignored in favor of the woman she had replaced, brightened up. The large smile was back on her face in an instant and she raised her hand to Robert as he turned around.

"So this is the famous Carlotta?" It could just be Arthur projecting out his own hopes, but it sounded like Robert was less enthusiastic than he had been with Mal. "My godfather has spoken highly of your talent. He says he has never heard one that can match it."

"In what?" Ariadne muttered. "Horrendousness?"

Carlotta was preening under the praise. "It is kind of Mr. Browning to speak so highly of me," she said. "If it weren't for him, I would never have got to where I am today."

"Perhaps you could grace us with a private performance?" Browning said. "It would allow my godson a chance to hear your wonderful voice for himself. And is there not a rather glorious aria for Elissa in Act Three?"

Carlotta stepped forward, face flushed with pleasure, but Mal spoke before she could.

"I am afraid that such a lovely performance will have to wait until after I announce _my_ surprise."

A murmur ran through the crowd of onlookers. It seemed like this was to be a day filled with unexpected things.

Browning turned towards Mal with a faint frown. "And what exactly is this surprise?" he asked.

"The same as yours, actually," Mal said. "I want to introduce one of returning patrons and a dear friend to many in the opera house." She spread her arm out with a flourish. "Mr. Eames!"

Arthur was completely unprepared for the roar of noise that followed the announcement. He had to lean away from Ariadne for the safety of his ear drums when she let out a shriek.

"Oh my God, Eames is back!" she cried. "He's been gone for _years_!" It was only after she had calmed down a little that she noticed how confused Arthur looked. "He was pretty much adopted by Mal's father as a child so he's an old friend of her and Dom. He was such a big part of the opera house that everyone knows him." She shot a quick, apologetic look at Arthur. "Well, nearly everyone."

Arthur shook his head understandingly. He had realized within his first year at the opera house that there were people who understood the building and what had occurred within it far better than he ever could. Many of them had been born and raised within the opera house, never knowing any other home.

He turned his attention to the man who was walking across the stage now to far more applause than Robert had received. This had to be Eames, he supposed.

The man was responding to the praise with all the mannerisms of a star, beaming as he waved at the crowds and even throwing a few kisses. He wore the clothes of a gentleman, although the patterns on the garments were more than a bit strange. I mean, honestly, was that a _paisley_ vest?

Arthur was distracted by Eames' strange taste in clothes, however, by his looks. The brown hair, slicked in a neat part to the left, was simple enough. But the eyes, which were a faint shade of blue now, seemed the type that could change at any minute. The fabric of his shirt strained against the broad expanse of his shoulders.

Arthur found his eyes resting on Eames' lips, something that he could hardly be blamed for in his opinion. He had never seen such full lips on a man before. It should have looked entirely too feminine, but somehow Eames with the rest of his rugged features managed to make it work.

Eames didn't even stop to kiss Mal's hand once he reached her. He just gathered into a tight embrace instead. He broke away only to clap Dom on the back and drag him into the hug as well. The easy familiarity came as a surprise for Arthur, who had only seen the Cobbs be like that with each other.

It took quite some time for Eames to extract himself from the Cobbs to turn towards Browning. Arthur was able to observe his face going through a series of subtle shifts until his expression turned from one overflowing with warmth to a mask of blank politeness. "And you must be Peter Browning. I've heard you've taken quite an interest in this lovely establishment."

Arthur could practically hear the gears churning in Browning's brain as he tried to judge how he was being treated. Eames had adopted a perfectly neutral tone, however, without slipping in a negative or positive infliction at any point. So when Browning took the hand that was offered to him he seemed a little unsure for once.

"Indeed I have," he said. He gave Eames' hand two firm pumps before releasing it. "And it would seem that you are much beloved by it."

Eames burst out in laughter at this, something which put Browning even more off guard. "Well I should hope so," he said. "It is my home, after all."

"Really?" Robert ducked his gaze sheepishly as Eames glanced over at him. "I apologize for interrupting, I was just—"

"Surprised?" A touch of warmth entered Eames' voice as he spoke to Robert. It would appear that he favored the young man over his godfather, something that Arthur didn't blame him for. "It's alright most people tend to have the same reaction."

Robert's nerves disappeared with a smile. "I'm glad to know I'm not the only one." He took a step forward, hand outstretched. "I'm Robert Fischer, by the way."

"Oh, I know," Eames said. "I could hear the announcement for your entrance from where I was backstage." He released the other man's hand to clap him on the shoulder. "Now I would enjoy nothing else but to continue our conversation, but it seems most unkind to leave our reigning diva to sulk."

Carlotta, who had indeed been moping over being overlooked once more, straightened up at these words. She plastered a smile on her face as she strode over to Eames, although it was a less genuine one than the one she had given Robert. "I did not to behave improperly," she said. "I am only—"

"Use to being the center of attention?" Eames cut across her. He reached out to take her hand she was too taken aback to offer, brushing his lips across it in the briefest of kisses before releasing it. "All primma donnas are."

"It would seem I have taken on the mantle very well then," Carlotta replied.

"Indeed it would," Eames said. "Although, if I may, you would do well to look to Madame Cobb as a role model. She is one of the most talented divas of her time, after all."

Browning stepped in after Carlotta's features began to pinch together in a sure sign of an approaching tantrum. "I think you will find, Mr. Eames," he said, "that Carlotta is a highly talented woman."

"Oh, I don't doubt." Eames glanced over at the woman with a single brow arched. "If she was not than I would wonder why she would have been given such a position in the first place."

"Perhaps you would like to hear her talent for yourself," Robert suggested. "She has agreed to give us a private performance of Elissa's aria from Act Three. I'm sure if you could just hear her voice for yourself then—" The rest of his words were lost as a man, who must have been his valet, came to tap him discreetly on the arm. He tipped his head towards the man, nodding in response to whatever was whispered into his ear. When he turned back to the others it was to offer them an rueful smile. "It seems I will have to miss out on the private performance. The doctor has requested my presence back that the estate."

Mal's face filled with a soft sort of sadness. It was something that Arthur, who had tended to his ailing father until the end, could relate to. "There is always the possibility for it to be nothing," she said. "Do not let your mind leap to the worst possibility right away."

Robert offered her a tight smile, but his eyes shown with gratitude. "I will try to follow your guidance, Madame," he said.

"You would be very wise to do so," Eames said. "Her advice has never failed me in the past." The smile he shot the younger man was small but warm. "It looks like I'll be following you out as it is."

Something flashed in Mal's eyes, her lips pursing for just a moment. "Going so soon, Eames?" she said.

"I'm afraid so," Eames replied. "I only just arrived today, after all, so there is still a great deal to be done. I will be back this evening, of course, to share in what will no doubt be a triumphant performance." He beamed out at the onlookers before turning with Robert to return the way they had come.

Arthur found himself growing tense, straightening up without even realizing it, as the two men grew closer. He knew it was ridiculous but there was a part of him that wanted Robert to see him. There was no way of knowing how the other man would react to the sight of him, yet he still wanted it to happen.

When the moment finally came, however, Robert just strode by without even a glance in his direction. He was too involved in a conversation with his valet it seemed to notice anything, or anyone for that matter, that surrounded him.

Arthur shut his eyes as he snuck back down, determined not to let his disappointment. He shouldn't have expected anything to happen anyway. The last time he had seen Robert the two of them had been children, standing on the beach to say their goodbyes. For all he knew, Robert had never thought of him again after that day.

When he opened his eyes it was to find Ariadne staring at him. The pity in her eyes only made what had occurred that much more embarrassing. "He wouldn't recognize me." He wanted to hit himself for how much it sounded like an excuse.

"He didn't see you," Ariadne said.

"But who would be able to miss such a lovely face?"

Arthur stiffened at the sound of that voice, coming from much closer than would be expected. He nearly knocked into Eames when he spun around since the man was so close. He probably would have wound up snapping at the man if Ariadne hadn't chosen that moment to rush out from behind him.

"Eames!" she cried. She lunched herself at Eames, causing the man to catch her and spin her around. Both of them were grinning by the time he put her back on the ground.

"Hello there Ariadne," Eames said. "The last time I saw you, you were just a wee thing." He rubbed his chin, looking the girl up and down. "Although, to be honest, you really haven't grown that much since I last saw you." He let out a squawk of mock offense as he received a swat on the arm for his comment. Then his eyes moved towards Arthur, lips spreading into a grin that was far too familiar for Arthur's taste. "And who is your handsome new friend? I don't think I've seen him here before."

Arthur made his move before Ariadne could speak, stepping forward with his chin pointed up. "No, you haven't," he said. "I arrived here after you left." He thrust his hand out. "Arthur Moss."

Eames curled his fingers around Arthur's hand, encasing it in warmth. "Moss?" he echoed. "Are you by any chance related to that famous American violinist—"

Arthur cut across him with a sigh. He had grown more than use to this happening whenever his last name was brought up. "Yes, he was my father," he said.

Eames' expression turned completely serious in the blink of an eye. "I am truly sorry for your loss," he said. "Your father was a truly talented man."

Arthur swallowed hard to rid himself of the lump that had formed in his throat. After three years you would have thought that the pain would have faded somewhat, but it was always like pulling back a scab to find the pain as fresh as ever. "Thank you," he said.

"And it would seem he has passed his talent on to his son," Eames said. He smiled, solemn expression disappearing like clouds being scattered by the sun. "Mal tells me that you have some very promising talent."

Arthur let out a snort before he could help himself. "I'm sure if that were the case then I wouldn't still be in the chorus," he said. He was taken aback by the dark look that flashed across Eames' face at such a statement, but it was gone so quickly that he was almost able to convince himself that he had imagined it.

"You never know," the man said, "you may find your circumstances changing soon." He lifted Arthur's hands to his lips, pressing a kiss to his knuckles so quickly that the other man had no time to pull away. "I hope I'll be seeing more of you Arthur." Then, with a turn of his heel, he was gone.

"I think he likes you!" Ariadne said. She clapped her hands together in delight. "That's a good thing."

"Why?" Arthur asked. He was still trying to shake off the way that Eames had said his name; his deep voice curling around the name like he owned it.

"Eames has always been a good judge of talent," Ariadne said. "Mal and Dom have always trusted judgment when it comes to such things."

"If that's the case," Arthur said, "then he's going to hate Carlotta."

The primma donna was already positioning herself at the center of the stage, being placated into giving her private performance even if the two people it had been meant for were no longer there. Everyone made sure to keep to the far reaches of the stage in case they were accused of trying to steal her limelight.

Arthur did his best to go to another place while Carlotta sang. The aria really _was_ lovely, but you wouldn't have guessed it from how the leading soprano sang it. She butchered every note, pushing her voice to the point that it strained. He tried to remember the time he hard heard Mal sing the aria, trying to replace Carlotta's voice with the one that was far superior to it.

His piece was disturbed, however, by the sound of something heavy unfurling and then Ariadne's hands were on him, pulling him backwards, her shriek mixing with others as one of the enormous backdrops came crashing down.

The only person who wasn't lucky enough to get away in time was Carlotta since she was at the center of the stage. It caught on the back of her voluminous costume throwing her down onto the floor.

Men rushed forward to remove the backdrop at once, Browning among them, helping Carlotta up and checking her for any injuries.

Ariadne still had yet to let go of Arthur and now her fingers were digging into his arms. "He's here!" she whispered. "The Phantom of the Opera!"

Unlike most of those in the opera house, Arthur had done his best not to believe in the opera ghost, yet he felt a chill run down his spine all the same.

Now that it had been confirmed that Carlotta was safe, Dom was hollering up at the scaffolding where some of his men were situated. "Yusuf! What in the devil are you doing up there?"

"Please, sir, it wasn't me!" Yusuf called back. He was already cranking the wheel to bring the backdrop back up. "As God's my judge, I wasn't at my post. There shouldn't have been anyone there. Or if there is, well, then it must be the—"

Dom held up a hand with a weary expression. "Don't say it," he said. He ran a hand through his hair before turning back to Carlotta. "I am deeply sorry, signora. Things like this just happen at times."

It was evidently the wrong thing to say from how Carlotta's face twisted up in fury. "At _times_?" she spat. "At times? For the past three months these things do happen. And did you stop them from happening? _No_!" She threw her hands up in the air. "These things do happen?" she repeated, mockingly. "I think not." She shook her head so hard that her headdress slid back slightly. "Until you stop these things from happening, this thing—" She gestured to herself. "—does not happen!"

Browning rounded on Dom as Carlotta stormed away, people parting like the Red Sea before her. "Well," he demanded, "aren't you going to stop her?"

"We may have more important matters to address." Mal had returned from wherever she had disappeared to. When the men turned towards her she held up a letter whose seal was an eerie cast of a skull fashioned out of deep red wax. "The opera ghost seems to have left us a message."

"Oh, God in heaven, you're all obsessed!" Browning snapped.

Mal just regarded him coolly before opening the envelope in one smooth movement, pulling out the letter that was inside. "Ah," she said, "it refers to you, Mr. Browning." She cleared her throat, satisfied that she now had his full attention. "He welcomes you, and your godson, to his opera house and wishes to inform you of the rules."

" _Rules_?" Browning said.

Mal continued on as though she hadn't been interrupted. "Box five is continued to be left empty for his use. Oh, and there is a reminder here about his salary…"

"His _salary_?" Browning said. "Surely you don't pay this…this…thing?"

Mal rolled her shoulders in an easy shrug. "It keeps him content," she said. "And as long as he is content then things are quiet." She tossed her head back, dark waves bouncing across her face. "And I wouldn't worry about Carlotta. She just needs sometime for her nerves to settle and then she will return. But, for now, I will have no trouble taking on the role of Elissa."

Cheers broke out amongst the onlookers at this—Arthur and Ariadne included—only to be interrupted by a single voice.

"How dare you!"

Nash stumbled out of the now silent crowd, waving an accusing finger in the general direction of the Cobbs. "I can't believe you're going to let such talent walk right out your door. You just want the spotlight to be on you just like it's always been. Well no more!" He curled his hand up into a fist. "Unless Carlotta is singing here than neither shall I!" A particularly nasty smirked appeared on his face. "Let's see how you cope with that." Everyone shrunk back as he stalked out.

Browning looked entirely too smug as he turned towards the Cobbs. "So," he said, "what precisely do you plan to do about that?"

Dom floundered for a moment until his wife placed a hand on his arm, offering a sweet smile with a hidden edge to the businessman.

"I assure you, Mr, Browning," she said, "that this will be no problem." She paused, eyes darting towards the backstage. "Arthur Moss can sing it."

That was the last thing that Arthur had been expecting. He was consumed with the urge to sink into the floor as all the eyes in the opera house turned towards him. Then he heard Browning scoff, "A chorus member?" and he stood up straight, chin thrust out. He would not appear timid and weak. He refused to give the man that kind of validation.

"He has been taking lessons from a great teacher," Mal said.

Arthur's eyes shot over to her in surprise. How did she know such a thing?

"Who?" Browning demanded.

Arthur hesitated for a moment then decided that he really had no other choice but to tell the truth. "I don't know his name, sir."

"Let him sing for you," Mal said. "He has been well taught."

Browning pinched the bridge of his nose with a sigh. "Fine then," he said.

Arthur moved forward to the center of the stage as Mal beckoned to him, her eyes warm with kindness. He took a deep breath, trying forget about all the eyes that were watching him. This was what he had been training for, what three years of lessons had been building up to. And he couldn't let down the man who had worked so hard to bring him here.

It was that in mind that he opened his mouth to let his voice free. He already knew all the parts for the lead tenor—his teacher had made sure of that—and he picked up his favorite one now with Hannibal seeking guidance from the gods for his attack on Rome. He felt like he was floating as he sang, somehow apart from his body. Nothing mattered except for the music and he let it carry him into a whole other world.

When the song came to an end it took him a minute reorient himself. At first all he was aware of was the complete silence that surrounded him, but then there was nothing but cheers and applause roaring in his ears. He stumbled slightly as Dom clapped him hard on the shoulder.

"Well done, Arthur!" he said. "I didn't know you could sing like that!"

"It seems you have regained your voice," Mal said. And it was that, along with the pride in her eyes, that made his heart swell his triumph. "Well, Mr. Browning, does he meet with your approval."

"I suppose he'll do," Browning grumbled.

Arthur was still so high on the afterglow that this didn't even bother him. He just turned to hug Ariadne as she raced towards him instead.

\---

High above, on the parts of the scaffolding that not even the workers used anymore, stood a lone figure. A smile curled onto full lips as the person took in the pure happiness in Arthur's face.

"Well done, darling."


	3. Chapter 3

Robert wasn't by nature, but even he felt a little nervous when his godfather insisted that the box keeper take them to Box Five. Browning had come back to the manor in a rage about the antics of the "opera ghost", which had resulted in Carlotta refusing to go on. Robert had to admit, if only to himself, that he was much more excited to hear Mal Cobb than he had been about her replacement.

The lead tenor had been lost as well, over his devotion to Carlotta it would seem. But he had been replaced almost instantly after his dramatic exit and by, if Browning's grudging admission was to be believed, someone who was better than the original.

It was all enough to make Robert anxious for the opera to begin.

The box keeper, however, paused outside of Box Five, shooting a worried glance at the two men with her. "Sirs, I really must—"

This was the final straw for Browning. "What you _must_ do," he cut in, "is let us into our box." He grumbled under his breath as the woman continued to hesitate. "What sort of low class superstition is this? There is no opera ghost!" And with that he seized the red velvet curtain, yanking it back.

But someone was already there.

The box keeper seemed as surprised as the two men she was escorting. "Mr. Eames? I didn't know you were already here!"

Eames shifted lazily in his seat, seeming completely unperturbed by the sudden intrusion. He gave the box keeper a gentle smile. "There's no way you could have known, my dear," he said. "No one ever tends to be up here."

"Because it's the Phantom's box?" Robert could have kicked himself once the words left his mouth. He didn't know why he kept blurting things out without warning around this man.

Fortunately, Eames didn't seem bothered by it. "That would be correct, Mr. Fischer." He drummed his fingers thoughtfully across the arm of the chair. "But I have always managed to stay on good terms with the opera ghost so he has never begrudged me the use of his box."

"You should have told me," the box keeper scolded. "Now I shall have to find some place else for these gentlemen."

"Oh, come now," Eames said, "they can share this box with me, surely."

"Share with you?" Browning echoed.

"Why not?" Eames tossed back. "If you waste time trying to find another place to suit your tastes than you might miss the start of the performance." The lights flickered in warning before going dim as if to prove his point.

The sigh Browning let out was layered with irritation. "Fine," he said. "This will serve." Then he strode into the box to take his seat.

Robert offered a quiet thanks to the poor box keeper before entering the box himself. The only seat left was one that placed hm directly between Browning and Eames. He couldn't help feeling somewhat glad as he took it. If he was stuck solely by his godfather than he would have had to put up with the man's grumblings for the whole performance. At least Eames appeared to adore the opera as much as he did. Perhaps even more.

Robert leaned forward in his seat as the music started up, the curtain drawing back half a minute later.

The chorus took the stage first, their voices raised in joy over Hannibal's victory. It didn't take long, however, for them to move aside to let Mal come forward. She handled the elaborate costume far better than Carlotta had, making it seem almost elegant instead of gaudy.

Her voice reminded Robert of his childhood, those golden years when everything had been so much simpler. His mother had still been alive back then, which meant that it was a time before his father's heart had iced over. She had adored the opera, always longing to attend every performance, something with which her husband was all too glad to indulge her. It wasn't until after her sudden death form tuberculosis that trips to the opera house had been forbidden.

Robert's focus was drawn back into the present as whispers broke out amongst the audience. It wasn't hard to find the cause of them either since the replacement for the lead tenor had just made his first appearance.

Robert found his brow furrowing, however, as he stared down at the young man. There was something about the tenor, something that he couldn't quite put his finger on. It was as though he had seen the other man before, but he had no idea where that could have been.

Any such thoughts were banished, along with the murmurs of the audience, however, when the young man began to sing.

Robert snapped up in his chair, hardly even realizing that his mouth had fallen open.

That voice! It seemed impossible for something of such beauty to actually exist. Yet it was there, ringing throughout the opera house and all those that heard it were unable to look away from its owner.

When the song reached its end there was a brief moment of silence as the audience adjusted to the lose of that unnatural voice. Then everyone was on their feet, filling the air with the roar of applause.

Robert would have joined them if it weren't for the realization that had just struck him. His eyes remained fixed on the young man on the stage who seemed so baffled by the praise he was receiving from the audience.

He _knew_ this person.

"Arthur," he breathed. Then his lips spread into an enormous smile. That adorable boy by the seaside with such a sweet little voice had grown up into a handsome young man, his voice having blossomed with him into something incredible. He leapt to his feet with a cry of, "Bravo!"

He had never imagined that he would ever see the other man again. He would have to find some way to arrange meeting with his old friend, the sooner the better.

He was so caught up in his own excitement that he didn't even realize he was being watched by gray eyes narrowed in suspicion.

\---

When the performance was over Ariadne grabbed Arthur by the hand, drawing him away into the back passages. It was a race to outrun the audience members that would soon be swarming into the back stage. By the time they reached his dressing room they were both breathless with laughter on their lips.

Then Ariadne was throwing her arms around him. "Oh, Arthur, you were perfect!" She drew back, shaking her head with an air of astonishment. "You must have an incredible teacher."

There was an obvious question in that sentence, one that made Arthur go tense. Ariadne was his best friend, the only person outside of the Cobbs that he actually trusted in the opera house. But he had no idea how to explain his deepest secret to her without sounding like he was mad.

Ariadne's face was already falling. "You're not going to tell me, are you," she said. She didn't even bother to phrase it as a question.

Arthur's stomach squirmed with something that felt an awful lot like guilt. "I want to tell you, Ari, really I do, but I don't know how."

"Well you should figure out how to!" Ariadne snapped. Then she sighed, her voice growing soft. "It's just… I've known you for three years now, Arthur, and most the time I feel like I know you better than anyone. But then there are these times when you just seem so… _distant_. You sneak out of the dormitories at the crack of dawn to go sing all by yourself in the chapel of all places then expect me to come down and fetch you when it's time for rehearsals. And sometimes…" She trailed off, chewing on her lower lip in a familiar nervous habit. "You'll lock yourself away in your dressing room after a performance and when I go to get you I can hear you carrying on a conversation like someone is actually there with you. And one time, not too long ago, I actually heard someone talk back to you—a _man_. But when you opened the door there was no one there!"

Arthur's reaction was immediate, one that he couldn't have repressed even if he had wanted to. He shot straight up, his eyes wide. "You _heard_ him?"

Ariadne looked just as surprised at first, but then her expression shifted into a smug sort of understanding. "So that was your teacher then! But how was he able to disappear so quickly?"

But Arthur was hardly even listening to her. His mind was still trying to grasp that Ariadne had heard a voice that he had thought only he could hear. How could such a thing be possible? Unless…

A furrow had begun to form on Ariadne's brow now, her former haughtiness gone. "Arthur, are you—" The rest of what she might have said was lost with a yelp as Arthur seized her by the wrist, dragging her into his dressing room.

It took her a moment to gather her senses back once inside, but once she did she whirled around to face Arthur. "What was that…" Her words trailed off, the anger in the fading away, when she saw how her friend looked.

Arthur's face had been drained of all its color and his hands kept fidgeting with the edges of his costume. It seemed to take a great effort for him to raise his eyes from the floor to meet hers, but once he did they filled with a strange mixture of fear and determination. "Look, Ariadne, what I'm about to tell you might sound mad, but it's true…all of it. I swear it."

Ariadne swallowed hard before nodding. "I won't judge you, no matter what it is," she said.

Arthur felt relief flood through him at the sincerity in her words. Then he took a deep breath, steadying himself for the story he would have to tell—one that he had never dared to tell anyone.

"My father was always an eccentric man, you know that. He kept telling me all sorts of fairy tales and myths far past what would be considered acceptable. And my favorites were always those about the Angel of Music. The angel was supposed to be responsible for the creation of all musical geniuses and I longed for him to visit me. So, when my father lay dying, he told me he would send an angel down from heaven to protect me—the Angel of Music himself."

Ariadne frowned just a little, unable to help herself. "But what has that got to do with your teacher?" she asked.

"Because the Angel of Music is my teacher," Arthur said. "I have heard him since I came to the opera house. His voice has always been with me, guiding me."

Of all the explanations Ariadne had come up with in her head, none had ever seemed as grand as this. "But that was just a story, Arthur. It can't possibly be real!"

"Don't you think I know that?" Arthur shot back. He turned away, rubbing his hands across his face. "I know how impossible it sounds. Why do you think I didn't want to tell you? But what other explanation can there be?" He shook his head. "You don't know what it's like, Ari. He's just there whenever I need him, but it's only ever his voice."

"And don't you ever wonder why that is?" Ariadne demanded. "Why he's never tried to appear to you in some form?"

"Of course I do," Arthur said. "I'm always picking apart the loopholes in this because there's a part of me that knows that it can't be true, that it's all too fantastical. But there's another part of me…a _stronger_ part…that just wants to believe that I can have something good for once. Is that so wrong?"

Ariadne bit down on her lip. There was a part of her that wanted to speak her mind, warn her friend that he might be the center of a vicious prank, but she was sure that such thoughts had already crossed his behind. Besides, there was something about how he was standing there, seeming so dejected, that made her hold her tongue.

"Just…just be careful, alright?" was all she said.

"Of course," Arthur said, "but you must promise not to tell anyone what I told you."

"I won't," Ariadne said. "Unless it starts to get dangerous."

Arthur nodded, knowing it wasn't fair to press her for more. He couldn't imagine things taking a turn for the worse anyway. The Angel of Music was a force that kept him safe, no matter who or what he truly was.

"Thank you," he said. "Now why don't you head off to the backstage party? You always have fun at those things."

It was clear that he didn't want to be questioned further and he was glad when Ariadne didn't press the matter. "You should come too," she said. "It's being thrown in your honor, after all."

Arthur snorted at that. "Only in name," he said. "It's really just an excuse for everyone to get drunk. Still, I might go after I get out of my costume."

"You better!" Ariadne said. She darted forward to press a kiss to his cheek before darting out the door.

Arthur waited until the door closed to head over to the screens set up for him to change behind. It felt wonderful to trade his costume with its heavy fabrics for his usual, more simple clothes.

He went over to the vanity after that to wipe off what remained of the makeup he had to wear while on the stage.

Still, even when this was all done, he couldn't bring himself to leave. Instead his eyes darted over to the ornate, full-length mirror, biting down on his bottom lip.

Ever since his lessons had begun, Arthur had known that the Angel of Music didn't intend for him to remain within the chorus. The members of the chorus were expected to have fine voices, of course, but they were also expected to be uniform without a single one trying to outshine the other. But when Arthur had tried to point this out his angel had only scoffed.

"You will never be allowed to fall into the constraints of others. Your voice is meant to defy all boundaries. Would you sacrifice that for the sake of slipping into the fold?" The tone had softened after Arthur had ducked his head, tripping over his words. "You are meant for so much more, Arthur. Trust me."

And how could Arthur not?

So tonight surely had to be as much a triumph for his teacher as it was for himself. He had finally reached the heights that the Angel of Music had assured him he could. Even now the applause of the audience still seemed to be ringing in his ears.

Yet, if that were the case, why had the angel not come to offer his praise? Had Arthur disappointed him in some way? It was a thought that chilled him to the bone.

He sighed when the door to his dressing room opened, not even bothering to turn around. "I'm sorry, Ariadne, but I'm really not feeling up to—"

"Little Artie?"

Arthur whirled around in his seat at the sound of that nickname. It was one he had not been called in years and even then it had only been by one person. "Robert?"

All the nerves that Robert had carried with him seemed to slide away at the sound of his name, a wide smile spreading across his lips. "So it really is you. I was so worried that I was only imagining things. It seemed too impossible." He knelt down before Arthur, gathering his hands up in his own. "I thought I'd never have the chance to see you again."

Arthur swallowed hard, trying to calm the desperate fluttering of his heart. "Neither did I." He raised his eyebrows, grinning. "I'm hardly 'Little' Artie anymore," he teased.

Robert could only laugh. "Does that mean you no longer enjoy picnics in the attic?" he asked. "Or that I can't coax you into telling me anymore dark stories?"

Arthur shook his head, chuckling as he did so. "Oh, I haven't changed so much. There is still one thing that I love best of all."

"And what is that?" Robert asked.

"Don't tell me you don't remember." Arthur cleared his throat once, trying to take on the mysterious air that his father had used whenever he had told the boys his stories. "'No, what I love best,' Artie said. 'Is when I'm asleep in my bed and the Angel of Music sings songs in my head.'"

Robert leaned forward to wrap his arms around Arthur and, although he didn't want to admit it, Arthur found himself leaning into the embrace. "You sang like an angel tonight." When he pulled away, his expression was full of warm fondness. "Now I must take you out to supper."

Arthur felt something drop like lead into his stomach, all of his earlier happiness slipping away. "No, Robert, I can't." He twisted guilty in his chair when Robert's face fell. "I'm sorry—truly—but my teacher wouldn't like it."

It was one of the first rules that his angel had set down. There would be no light nights, no admirers—nothing that could distract him from his lessons or the music.

"But that's ridiculous," Robert said. "Surely your teacher can understand that you deserve the chance to enjoy yourself after such a brilliant performance. And what better way to do that then at one of the best restaurants in Paris?" He rose to his feet, lifting Arthur's hand to his lips. "We have a great deal of catching up to do. I have missed you, Little Artie."

Arthur shot up from his chair as Robert turned to go. "Robert, wait!" But the other man had already slipped out the door without another word.

Arthur rubbed a hand across his face with a groan. He knew he couldn't give in to Robert's offer, despite how tempting it was. The Angel of Music would be furious to see his orders so easily flaunted and the last thing Arthur wanted to do was to entice that rage.

He would be lying, however, if he claimed that he wasn't eager to have the chance to be with Robert again and enjoy his company.

He wasn't given a chance to struggle with his decision for very long, however, since the lights in his dressing room began to flicker before abruptly going out. It was followed barely even a second later by a fierce, powerful voice that seemed to be coming from everywhere at once.

"So this is what happens when I turn my back? You share my triumph with some young suitor. A mere _boy_ unworthy of your glory!"

Arthur knew he should refuse to let himself be barreled over or, at the very least, try to defend himself, but it proved to be impossible in the face of his teacher's anger. Instead he found himself trembling under the weight of each word, afraid that his legs might actually give out below him.

His angel had never been truly upset with him, only offering up a light scolding when Arthur arrived late to lessons or botched a note in a song. To be under the full burden of his teacher's fury was frightening for the sheer fact that he didn't know what to expect from it.

He swallowed hard, forcing a strength he didn't completely feel into his words. "Angel, please, I meant no disrespect. Robert is nothing more to me than a friend and I was so caught up in seeing him again that I didn't think." He fought to keep his head up, despite the tears he could feel starting to sting in his eyes. "Please, Angel, abandon me. I will accept any punishment except for that. _Please_."

There was a moment of horrible silence that seemed to stretch on forever and then the voice came again, gentler now. "Then will you prove yourself to me?"

"Yes." Arthur's voice sounded close to feverish, even to his own years. "Yes, I'll do anything."

"Then come to me," his angel said.

Arthur stood there in confusion, unsure of what such words could mean, only to inhale sharply when the silhouette of a man began to emerge behind the grand mirror.

There was only one person he could think that it could be.

"A—Angel?"

The voice that answered him was more seductive than any he had ever heard, wrapping around his senses and driving away all thought. _"I am your Angel of Music. Come to me, Angel of Music."_

He was distantly aware of his name being called, but the sound seemed so distant, unable to compete with that of the voice that beckoned to him. He didn't even realize he was holding out his hand and he gasped as it seemed to pass straight through the glass.

The hand that took his was encased in leather, yet he could still feel the warmth radiating through the material. "This…this…can't be real," he murmured.

Something like amusement sparked in the man's eyes. "And why is that?" He guided Arthur forward into a corridor with torches set into the stone to guide the way.

Arthur didn't have a chance to take in much else for he found his head lolling back against the sturdy shoulder behind him as he slipped into unconsciousness.


End file.
